Drenched
by a-MAXiMINalist
Summary: In the wake of Sulley's and Mike's arrest, Don Carlton represses his despondency. Funny, how he assumed that decades of life experience would immune him to such petty grief. In the adrenaline rush after her umbrella, he attempted to see through the haze of his regrets and passions. A dose of DONxSHERI. Stand-alone follow-up to "More Than OK" and "Past Curfew."
1. Headache

_**Note:** While this story should stand alone on its own, it can be optionally seen as a distant follow-up/extended epilogue to "More Than OK" as well as the follow up to "Past Curfew."_

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Headache**

The clawing of the thrashing branches on the window pane added to the headache.

With a deep inhale, he twisted the phone dial and pressed the cool speaker to his cheek.

The line was accepted in an instantaneous _click_.

"CDA office, how may I help you?" The voice had that familiar youthful smoothness. It had to be the same guy he called yesterday.

"I would like-"

"Ah, Mr. Carlton." The receptionist had recognized his voice, almost like an old comrade expecting the voice of an old friend. Don was sure that it was his Mid-western trademark accent that he recognized. Don always did make sure to cherish his signature Minnesota inflection even after Oozmanian Industry let him go. The accent came naturally, he was "born with it," or was raised by the countryside with a Ma and Pa that spoke like that. Yet, it was by his fifties did he grow over-conscious of his accent, talking to himself to make sure he he hadn't lost it. It always did seem to charm his old clients before the downsizing and the decline of successful sales. The accent was still pure. What did expire about it was its effectiveness. It probably grew old to customers.

At least it still made him recognizable.

"We have no updates to offer." Don could imagine the guy's face, forcibly stretched into a grin as if to will his voice into the conventional "cheery social professional" persona. Or maybe he was just a genuine perky guy with no irritations to suppress. "Nothing new on the case of that Wazo... Wazosi-ski? And oh, that son of Bill Sullivan, yes James."

No verdict on Mike's and James's fate. Nothing. Proceedings were all confidential. Not even visits were permitted. He wanted to lie down.

"Just be patient, good sir," the receptionist told him once again, "and a verdict will be reached for those two."

"Any chance of getting those fellas on the phone?"

"Sorry, sir, not permitted." A pause. The receptionist has the professionality to let his client absorb displeasing news.

"Well, you have a swell day sir. Thanks."

"You too. Just be patient and everything will work out." He could imagine the guy hanging up, sitting at the desk, reverting to a grouchy face and wondering, "ugh, that guy again. Give me a break." Having been acquainted with many office types, it was common for grouchy monsters to be talented at "turning on/off" a nice persona as easy as twisting a facet knob.

 _Just be patient and everything will work out._

Patience. Even for his initiative to make phone calls, Don felt that he was being too patient with circumstances. The virtue of patience was instilled by Ma and his late Pa, in hopes of getting their boy to sit still and not scurry around in adherence to the old adage, "children must be seen, not heard." They had convinced him that it made him a better Scarer. It worked. He showed off his famous "Silent Sneak" in his high school days, until he reached the age when his suckers grew nosier and stickier, suckering away his confidence in his abilities, to the point where he was merely content with watching the Scaring Field Days and the recess games from the sidelines (but not without thinking, _gee, I would like to jump back in the game someday if I learn how to quiet up those suckers_ ).

He exercised patience when rehearsing his own little silent sneaks in high school. But he never learned to master patience until he entered sales. Time, he learned in the arts of marketing, was a valuable commodity, especially with looming deadlines and quotas. Even Scaring bore uncanny parallels to sales. Finish the pitch within this amount of minutes, complete the Scare within a range of minutes. Conclude the excursion. Wrap up the pitch. Escape the area. Greet your customers goodbye as efficiently but effectively as possible. Speed was encouraged, but patience was the anchor to speed, allowing him to slow down, so not to rush the customers.

No answers.

Perhaps there was someone else with some semblance of answers.

Hardscrabble. According to campus memo, she was testifying at the CDA hearing. But she was absent, unavailable on school grounds. Besides, even if they asked, they had to be too much on her bad side to receive an answer.

Professor Knight. Derek.

Maybe he knew something that wasn't confidential. He was a close acquaintance of Hardscrabble. Surely she might had leaked something to him. If so, slim chance he would pass along confidential info to even a friendly acquaintance.

Still...

Derek wasn't one who passed out business cards, so Don had to dig out his old Scare 101 syllabus, one he thankfully filed rather than threw away, to procure Derek's office number.

He twirled the phone dial.

In the intervals between the phone rings, Don was thinking, what was Derek doing now? What did he think of the whole Scare events? Derek typically had priorities. He might be grading Scaring term papers. Years ago in Scaring 101, he joked once, "your term papers are what I look forward to the most," even though Don knew he was a consistent B+ student and who never scored as high as that Javier fella. Don figured Derek liked him then because he started conversations about the day and weekend rather than beg for deadline extensions.

The machine picked up, "Hello, this is Professor Derek Knight. I am not at my desk right now. Leave a message."

He wanted to leave a message, but he wasn't so sure. Could Derek be at his desk, ignoring the ringing?

 _Hello, 'fessor Knight, I hope this ain't bothersome. But I am curious about whether you know anything about the case of James and Michael here? We're just concerned and would like to know if they're all right._

It should be little trouble saying that. But Don glued his mouth shut, not wanting to betray any breathing on the message.

He could fathom Derek being confused and pestered at this question.

Derek might be frustrated over the Oozma's dishonest victory. Was he was one of those once cheering OK fans turned disappointed by the scandal?

Don slammed the phone down. Derek might get confused by the extended voiceless message.

No use sitting around and assuming the worse of Knight's thoughts. It was Friday. The campus ought to be still active.

He'll try to catch Knight on campus for some answers. A face-to-face meeting would be less awkward. He imagined that Derek might look at him funny. That was the pros to phone calls. Without face-to-face, you never got to see the facial reaction of the other. But that was the con too. Hearing a voice over the phone made it less easier to infer how the person was really feeling.

He was also ready to return to Dark Avenue...

Not permanently of course. Last semester, it had been a weekend ritual to return to his apartment on Dark Avenue, Emeryville before the start of the Scare Games commitments, which he respected like a signed contract. He enjoyed it immensely, but, like contracts, there were cons to the pros. The cons were that it required him to stay at the Oozma Kappa's household on weekends and not go back and tidy up his apartment.

On the last weekend he returned to his flat, still recuperating and trying not to rub his stinging urchins wounds, Mike had made sure to holler drills and exercises through the phone, even jamming his inbox with messages that swept all the attempted calls of his old co-workers deep in the history files.

So Don had figured it didn't help or respect the team's, especially Mike's, confidence if he trained from a distance at his apartment where Mike's watchful eye could not track his progress. Besides, it proved motivating and productive to have a coach holler at ya rather than receive instructions from incessant phone calls. He missed Mike's orders. He missed that throbbing fist on his door. Or even those ambush drills where Mike, the expert stealthily creeper he is, would sneak into his room and blare an alarm into his eardrums.

The window pane thrashed and rattled. He ran his palm on it to be sure it was bolted tight.

He must beat the storm, make it to the campus, find Derek, then dash for the bus.

He slipped his business card (for luck) and his bus pass into his front pocket.

He didn't exactly miss his apartment. But returning there was... proper. This room was pretty cramped too with the photo of his family, friends, diploma, scrunched together above his desk, surrounding his diploma. His apartment would provide more space, even if it was just more emptiness.

The photo of Ma' and the late Pa' Carlton smiled at him. They seemed proud of him.

Pa never lived to judge Don's re-enrollment at M.U. He had made a risky investment when returning to M.U. He wasn't wealthy, but he had a still substantial amount in his retirement account to astonish him. Sudden impulses hit him at how to spend it. His immediate thought wasn't luxuries. He wouldn't overspend it.

He had needed an investment that would last him for a few decades. He could afford to make a life error. He was ready for losses. He hadn't honestly been thinking about retirement then because he preferred to worry about his career prospects. The hefty retirement withdrawal was worth the penalty fees for such an early withdrawal. Though all the penalty fees for the withdrawal rose faster than his financing skills. Not to mention the added tuition for the re-take of the entrance Scaring course.

Pa would call it a gamble. To Pa, "investment" would be a rationalization, an excuse, not a reason. When he had diverged the new plan to his Ma, halfway into the semester of Scaring with a high B average, she looked at him funny. To her relief, he was smart enough to afford a backup plan: computers, a minor just waiting to convert into a major.

He stared at a photo of himself and three close pals, all content with the good ole' days. He had a mop of fin-hair covering his now bald spot then. There he was. With Andrew, Pete, and Dan.

Andrew, five years more experienced at selling, had preached quality came from a creative drive in a manic sort. Pete preached quality too, but possessed the most patience, and mentored both Dan and Don more closely. Impulses were to be controlled and timed in the sales environment. Dan was known for impulses. He liked holding his clients in suspense. Dan, self-depreciatingly, speculated that his own shortcoming was that he spoke so fast that sometimes he skimped over the parts about quality or he was too quick for his clients to let them process the part about quality. Though at his best, Dan delivered at speed without excessive urgency.

Like Scarers, they possessed, adopted, exchanged the other signature techniques as goodwill. They adapted and adjusted to these values depending on the preference of their clients. They were their own mentors to each other and themselves. Mike taught him discipline with the regimen of exercise. The twins guided him through coordination. Art gave him breathing warm-ups and techniques that even salesman didn't know of. Scott didn't exactly teach him anything new, but instead reminded him that a compassionate fervor was everything.

Speaking of which, it had been weeks since he exchanged words with his old friends, even Dan. Having been confined to Sheri's house made Don suspect that his phone back at Dark Avenue had been crammed with messages. They might have been calling his old apartment. He typically only chatted with them on weekends if he felt like it, typically on better days when he had more good news than bad.

He never elaborated much on moving into the Squibbles house to them. It wasn't shame but the awkwardness of explaining the living arrangement. He told Ma he was staying in a homemade boarding home, but never mentioned the part about being in a fraternity part or the Scare Games. Only Dan knew of his fraternity stay and congratulated that odd idea of his.

It was nice to afford two places to sleep: his apartment on Emeryville on Dark Avenue (weekends) and the Oozma Kappa fraternity house (weekdays), technically Sheri's abode, conveniently close to campus. "Technically, it's my mom's house being that she pays for it," Scott once sheepishly explained to him.

A _knock._

He expected Scott. He felt useless because he wasn't so sure he had any more original encouragements that could renew any smile in the boy.

But it was Sheri Squibbles who stood at his door. Trademark smile and all. Her face could be plastered over an oatmeal label and sell for millions.

Her immediate presence radiated an almost tear-inducing air. She smelt of overdosed honeysuckle perfume and stinging disinfectant. It appeared she simply slattered the perfume with little care. She had been busy with cleaning, particularly in James's and Mike's room. She seemed to adhere to the belief that devout cleanliness would hasten their homecoming.

She clutched a black square envelope, her palm trembling as she had been tentative since the arrest of Mike and James. "Sorry, nearly forgot to give-"

Now he could see the symptoms of grief in her reassuring smile. He could tell when her smiles were false because they wavered or the muscles of her dimples shuddered, such as the time he explained to her what those circulating photos on campus meant.

"It's quite all right." He received the letter out of her shaky palm.

Don sighed, figuring it was a disciplinary letter after the two incidents, wait, scratch that, _three_ incidents due to the non-campus sales advertising to Headmistress Hardscrabble (a minor offense to Monsters University and Hardscrabble) to create a diversion in rescuing Mike.

The OK initial stared back at him. He restrained himself from squeezing the envelope in trepidation.

When he looked up, her smile had subdued into a somber expression, staring at him as if he was a tourist stranger making a frantic inquiry for directions, as if she knew it was all right not to fake a grin.

At first, Don suspected she shared this foreboding of the letter's contents, but something else seemed to dishearten her.

Her fallen expression brought to his consciousness that his face felt too relaxed. He forgot to wear the usual smile.

"Gotta' start an emergency meeting, if the boys are up for it."

He stared down at the letter, hoping to conceal the mild watering in his eyes from her scent.

* * *

 **Following chapter teaser : "** _Something, something. Anything to retrieve their grins. Like how Mike does. He owed it so heartily to Mike. But he also had to remind himself, as he pried his arm off the fabric of the armchair, he made that discovery himself. It was Mike who helped him perform the ceiling technique. In the library, in the mist of instinct, when he knelt to the floor, not caring how ridiculous he looked sprawled out on the hardwood, peeling his suckers off and on."_

 _I do not own Oozma Kappa, Don Carlton included, Hardscrabble, Derek Knight._

 _I do own the mentioned Ma and Pa Carlton, Andrew, Pete, and Dan. Take a guess who Don's old friends were named after._


	2. Backup Plans

_A/N_

 _Although this does not receive much reviews, not even a scrap of constructive criticism, I hope that I would find a point to finishing it, other than "because I must."_

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Backup Plans**

When he came downstairs, he was welcomed by the scent of Sheri's uneaten Bluescarry pie.

Despite the mouthwatering scent, he was in no mood for a bite. That dessert had been sitting out cold, recently removed from a rejected care package Sheri attempted to send to Mike and Sulley to the CDA quarters. None of the Oozmas had bothered with a crumb, no doubt a subtle tribute to Mike, who had a sweet tooth for Bluescarry.

The forlorn sight in the living room downstairs was familiar but dreary. Lounging on the floral sofa, Terry, his buck teeth biting down on his lips, scribbled in his journal, while Terri, drummed his fingers on fabric the armchair, as if restraining hyperactivity by willing either deep thought or some daydream. Art twirled around the flowery stool as idly as a butterfly. Scott laid in a heavy slump next to Terry.

"Boys, if yer up for it, emergency meeting." It was like those short-notice conference meetings in his office days, except he would give the boys the luxury of voting to postpone it if they wished.

What Don especially noticed was the immediate distressed frown upon Terry's face that seemed to glower, _really, Mr. Carlton, now, after everything?_

But Terry's grimace was as close of a verbal rejection he could get from the Oozmas. No one really spoke out or asked to postpone the inevitable.

It was better to get bad news over with then to pretend there was good news. They got used to it.

He held up the black envelope. "We've got a letter."

Despite the arrival of school letters being a rare, but exciting occurrence for Oozma Kappa, the sight of the envelope cast an uneasy veil across the living room. Art halted his spinning on his chair. Terry was mid-turn on a page in his journal. Terri's fingers froze in mid-fidgetiness. Scott had his elbow on his knee. Sheri even froze on the stair steps, leaning on the stair rail like a curious spectator.

Then Scott leaned forward, his eyes frozen wide with eagerness and trepidation. "Could it be about Mike and Sulley?"

Don took that as a signal to rip it open. His coordination with everyday objects had improved to the point his suckers did not disfigured the letter.

He cleared his throat as he flapped out the parchment. It would be discourteous to hold them all in suspense, but even then, he was tempted to delay the possibility of the disheartening news. There was this hungry urgency to know and not know.

 _"To the members of Oozma Kappa,_

 _I would reiterate that your names are cleared from the Scare Games fiasco and would remain so, although the team victory would be revoked._

 _Due to the circumstances of your teammates, I will be absent on campus for two to three weeks. When I return to campus on Monday, I will tend to your circumstances. I would like to see you in my office at whatever convenient time of yours. I prefer that I deal with your matters in person."_

 _Sincerely,_

 _Dean A. Hardscrabble."_

He wished the armchair could swallow him at any minute.

That's it. No real answers. Hardscrabble, as much as he respected her, needed to be more direct and open to her students. Perhaps it was some sort of secret test to the students. There were rumors regarding her taciturn nature that "it's her way of a secret test of character." Or maybe she really didn't know and wanted to be vague so not to raise their hopes. Or she was concealing a grudge underneath the the hazy professionalism of the writing.

Two to three weeks of doubt and tension over their academic future.

"Wait, that means _we_ might get in after all." Terri remarked.

"We don't know that." Terry shook his head. Then Terri was shaking his head too.

Gosh, any compliment. Anything. "Guys, guys. We all worked hard. Isn't that all what mattered?"

And from the cringe-ful grimace on Terry's face, Don knew those words were a mistake.

Don lived and fed on constant advice, "work hard" was a prominent one, reiterated by his parents, teachers, and former co-worker Dan. Working hard did bring him somewhere: to a career that required him to read the faces and voices of many, interpreting their preferences and attributes, whether it was over the phone or face-to-face.

 _"Work hard and never give up and everything will work,"_ were among the first words Dan uttered to him, definitely echoed his Pa's maxim. A cliche. But this was just a variation of the mantra parents had told their children. He knew because he grew up among the children, no, was also that kid, passively rebelling simply by not putting effort not out of rebellious spite, but sheer lack of will and discipline. Even Sheri could be heard using those words as encouragement to Scott over the breakfast table ("Work hard, sweetie, do your best" was her variation on it) and he understood it wasn't just for her son, but for everyone else at the breakfast table.

He would tell the same thing to the boys, particularly to Scott, except his was "Work hard, sonny, but even if you fail, yer still gold to me."

He could see Scott's delayed, reluctant nod. Bringing up the idea of hard work used to be an effective way to encourage the kid. But now it dissolved into a over worn, second-hand cliche.

And decades after his start in Oozmanian Industry, Dan had added, _"...that is not always true,"_ to the mantra, half-chuckling and stifling his disappointment as he was packing up his office space for the next newly-hired younger salesman.

Don had fantasized quitting before his inevitable release. Go out with glory. But he couldn't bring himself to even rehearse the words. It would be impolite and impudent. Not to mention that the higher-ups, far from the image of antipathetic, grimacing bosses he imagined in his youth, seemed genuinely saddened to let go of many of their veterans, which was why (he liked to think) they had to have delayed the bad news to each of them.

He was surprised that it was Scott, who halted his nodding, who uttered, "What's the point?" The boy yanked down his cap over his eyes. "Did we even need the Games?"

They had figured it would be fun to enter the Scare Games as a fleeting consolation for their past failure with the Scaring School, but they never imagined the opportunity of collective redemption. The Universe dished it out with Hardscrabble's wager with Mike at the sign up.

Don admitted to himself though that he was a little too eager to pounce at the opportunity and forgo-ed his sense of reality - the consistent probability of disappointment. Perhaps he assumed that the universe would compensate for all the troubles that it had to be perfect, smoother road. He always knew hard work was required but, son of gun, forgot about the pain it would involve. Like the strain on his back and chest and knees that even weeks of straight-backed sleeping couldn't cure. He questioned whether it was worth the impending success. But soon, his back, his chest grew sturdier and the strain subsided into resistant muscles. To become less repellent and more adaptive to the pain was the challenge.

It was when he botched his exam in Scaring 101 30 years ago did he conclude that he was in love with the illusions of rewards rather than the actual work of Scaring, more of being a face on a trading card than the thrill of venturing into the Human World itself.

Pa had meant well to drive him toward the direction of a Marketing. It was as if Pa was trying to spare him the disappointment for other disappointments. Hard bargain of a matter, but all right, Pa, you know what was best. You knew me better then. Perhaps this loss had proved Pa's spirit right. But Don had outgrown the fantasy of being on a trading card.

But he imagined that these boys would become faces on trading cards someday. Like eager schoolkids, they had made promises to trade cards of each other years from now.

Terry winced. "I knew this would stick with us, even though it was only James's grubby paws that did us in."

Scott shot an indignant look at the defamation of James.

Don bit his lips. He didn't share Terry's frustration, but he couldn't really disagree.

"Now, now, no need for a blame game. Our names were cleared as the letter stated. Hardscrabble knows that we didn't-"

"Not to some of folks on campus." Terry slumped down, and by default, Terri did too.

True, they could not ignore the disappointed glances on campus, in spite of the Campus Roar article emphasizing Sullivan's culpability in the Games as well as Mike's culpability in crossing the Human World.

He didn't like to agree with Terry's pessimism. But they did have to be cautious about their expectations. Not that they didn't value optimism, but it did fail them when they visited that ROR house. They already paid dearly for incautious optimism, under that ROR roof. With all the woes they went through, he would expect fate to reward, or relieve, them. Optimism wasn't safe.

Maybe it was safer to direct their optimism somewhere else.

Art twirled on his cushion. But Don knew better than to assume that Art was idling off in his own world. He was feigning aloofness, as if that would protect him from the blow of impending bad news.

Had the CDA receptionist allowed it, he would have taken the guys to kitchen phone, slap on the speaker call, asked Mike to do his magic, to revive everyone's hopes. Mike had the ideas. Mike was the one audacious enough to fire them up in audacious ways, especially with that field trip to Monsters Inc.

Certainly, another rendezvous trip to MI would be out of the question.

"Now boys. We needa discuss some thangs."

They all, even the supposedly distracted Art, went in reluctant nods, yeahs, and sures.

"What was the one thing we should never forget?"

"Breathe?" Art muttered, glancing at the air as if trying to perceive an invisible butterfly. He wasn't being random. Art always recommended breathing as a remedy for stress.

"Um, sure, that's important." Don allowed a minor chuckle to lighten the mood. But no one reciprocated. "But what I meant is that we should move on." But the quote came off as unempathetic, everyone needed time. "Take steps to move on," he corrected himself. "But right now, we can talk about yer hopes and dreams."

The question seemed perplexing to them.

Terry frowned. "Scaring _is_ our hope and dream." Don saw Scott's glum nod in agreement.

"I meant other hopes and dreams. When you fellas lost that Scaring Dream the first time, what were your other dreams before you became an Oozma Kappiam? Last time I recall, you took to other dreams ya' had."

"More like... _backup plans_ ," mummered Terry.

"Maybe the backup plan is what yer need." Don didn't even like the sound of those words. He was sounding like Pa now. Who was he to declare what was best for the boys?

Scott didn't budge. No nod nor headshake. Art spun around. The twins (or really just Terri, Terry might be being polite alongside his brother) shrugged.

"Y'll had majors before?"

Don recalled his Ma always asking, well, how are those computers, my boy, after his status as a Scaring major was revoked from him. Even when he was a Scare major she was asking about those computers. She never openly advised him against Scaring classes. But she did give him that funny look when announcing his intent. That was why he never told her about the Scare Games. He didn't want that funny look from her again. She seemed sorry yet relived that he could afford the Computer Science major as the backup plan.

Something, something. Anything to retrieve their grins. Like how Mike does. He owed it so heartily to Mike. But he also had to remind himself, as he pried his arm off the fabric of the armchair, he made that discovery himself. It was Mike who helped him perform the ceiling technique. In the library, in the mist of instinct, when he knelt to the floor, not caring how ridiculous he looked sprawled out on the hardwood, peeling his suckers off and on.

"Terry, I know yer do some writin' sometimes."

The fellow nodded. A small grin was forming on Terri's face.

"Eh, I'll write. Maybe for the newspaper."

Don thought about Dan, who was now working on screenplays. "Heck, you might even write one of them movie scripts."

Then Terri chimed in, "Or get short stories published."

Terry tried to conceal his grin.

Don suspected that Terri tried to spare his brother the from flattering bashful display, because then Terri added.

"... And did I mention, Mike's techniques inspired new moves?" Art elbowed Terry.

"Demonstrate," he commanded in a tone that emulated Prof. Knight. Speaking of which, the more he stalled here, the less likely he could encounter Derek on campus. But the boys were top priority now.

Terry flushed, bashful but beaming. "Mr. Carlton, it ain't perfect. It isn't read-"

"Come on, bro," Terri urged.

The twins gave a few stretches. They threw himself down on the floor right in sync and spatial precision.

"Wait, don't you need to move the tabl-"

But before Don could instinctively snatch the pie tin to spare it from a possible accidental fall, the twins busted their move. They rolled under like a smooth frictionless log and sprung out within less than five seconds.

"Adapted from the narrow desk crouch." They bowed. "Wait till Mike sees this."

They all applauded. He could hear Sheri hollering, "Wooooo!"

The twins were all smiles. Now for Art.

"Art. What might yer be?"

Art sprung to life. "Therapy!"

The room stared in perplexity, accentuated by the twins' "huh?"

"I'll be a therapist. And when I open a private business, you'll get a discount. Free of charge consultations."

Everyone laughed. It was no joke. You could always count on Art to pass out advice. He always acted if words of comfort were a hundred dollar offer that the world deserved for free.

Scott grinned. "Could you help me find a major if I stay undeclared forever?" The kid was still searching. And suddenly Don remembered Scott had never choose a major prior to the Scaring major. The boy was back to "undeclared."

"You guys have everything. Everything figured out."

"Scott, I know there's something for you out there."

The kid smile was now fading. He was still retaining it, as if joking about it made it better.

"Well, I guess I'll find what I want to do." A sheepish grin formed on him. "But honestly, I am happy now."

"What are you going to do, Don?"

"Ehhhhhh." He found that he couldn't really shrug at the question.

"Say, what about you, Don? What will you be?"

Don wanted to say, a fellow sitting in a cubicle, going to conference...

But what came out was, "Computer engineer." He remembered to smile when he answered. If weren't for the anticipation in the boy's face, Don would have added, "for decent income." That would have sounded a tad mocking to himself.

They all went in their polite, yeah, that's nice, or, that's great. Even Art, though genuine in his compliment, said, "That's nice." At least Don was sure they were pretending. You could really never know when you had friends. Were they sparing your feelings or did they really believe in you so much that they don't notice when you're fibbing?

Except for Scott. "That's cool!" One-hundred dandy percent that the kid meant it. Scott knew squat about requirements, never sat through the line of pragmatic computer tutorials. There was an innocent envy and idolization in Scott's eyes.

But perhaps Scott's deference to the word of Don's future was a distraction from his own lack of a purpose. He wanted to offer the boy some mode of fulfillment.

"Say, Scott, I know what you might like next semester."

"Hm?"

He cleared his throat. Throat clearing was a technique when pitching, it puts your audience in suspense. "How a-bout. You become Oozma Kappa President?"

Those five eyes widened with perplexity. "Wait, what?" All the others were leaning in, tuning in.

"I'm graduating next semester as you guys know. My classes would be over with."

"But you've only been here for, what, two years?"

"Don got all his core requirements over with," Terry cut in. Ah, indeed that was a perk of being mature student. They didn't make you repeat what you already learned.

"Aw." The face's face sunk.

"So how about that. You are the co-founder." Oozma Kappa started as an attempt to recruit older students. When that didn't work, he handed the fraternity name to Scott.

"Yeah, I was."

"You're the one who found Terry, Terri, and Art."

The kid began scratching his hair. "Well... but, I would elect Mike, if he ever wants to be the President. But... But..."

"But what? Yer a great pal and you can be a great leader." Scott lacked confidence, but this reluctance didn't come from cowardice but a concern to his friends.

"You're leaving?"

"Well, not now. And yer guys will be short a president if I leave."

Scott bit his lips. "You're not going to be here anymore, living with us?"

Suddenly, it dawned on him what Scott was worried about. Don needed a distraction. He didn't want the boy to mope on the question.

"We'll see about that. But I'll nominate you." He turned to the boys. "Boys? What do you think. Scott might be a good nominee?"

Everyone nodded, as if promising their vote for Scott. And a smile was forming on Scott, still tentative, but in a stupor. Don hoped that the surprise of support would suppress Scott's forlornness.

"I think I might like that. It's something to consider." He realized that perhaps it didn't matter that Scott ever became the new president (he did picture Terry or Mike as more ideal candidates truth to be told). But that Scott ever considered, yes, it was miraculous that Scott realized that wanting to be president was an option.

This was a good note to end on.

"Meeting adjourned. You boys take a breather."

The boys departed upstairs, perhaps emboldened enough to finish their homework. They were done with being glum. For now.

No one really ate the pie, which Sheri was picking up, ready to store it in the fridge to save up as dessert in Scott's lunch.

It was time for him to return to Dark Avenue.

* * *

But he wanted to catch Derek Knightly first on campus. Then he'll run to the bus and get back to his old apartment. Derek must have some answers about Mike and James. He wanted less suspense to haunt him.

The graying sky did not bother him as much as the decreasing temperature. As Don took his first step from the front porch, he was imagining graduation, the period of time where he sat through job interviews, rehearsed in front of a mirror, ignoring the sags beneath his eyes, and cubicle friends. He was sure they would never match the likes of his Oozmanian Industry pals or the Oozmas. He'll never know really.

Pete, Andrew, and Dan were fleeting voices in occasional phone calls. Off to resume life in whatever sales job they could scour through the classifieds in the papers. Andrew had failed a recent private investment endeavor and was, optimistically, anticipating a "comeback in sales" and will host speaking seminars for students. Pete was investing in a startup plan known as "Brong." And Dan, regulated his job to a stay-at-home dad, wrote screenplays in his spare time. They secured mostly safe futures, or at least, were satisfied with their plans.

The boys would be reduced to phone calls too. He wondered if Scott would be the one to barraged him with the most phone calls. How will Scott fare without him? He came to Don the most frequently for wise words, moreso than the twins and Art. Sometimes he wanted to shrug and confess, "I don't know the answer, sonny." But he would always often assure Scott, "be gold as yer always were. Become better, learn, live, breathe. And you'll get through all the bad moments." Don remembered once in the middle of the night Scott knocked on his door, still tear-stricken about the ROR humiliation and frightened because he didn't want to expose his tears to the boys. It was the only time Don was ever at a loss for words, even shoddy advice, and he only remembered getting Scott a glass of water which seemed to diminish the tears for a time being.

He didn't bother telling the boys that he was going home for the weekend as they were used to the ritual (at least, last semester). They wouldn't notice him missing anyway because it wouldn't be as mournful as the absence of Mike and James. He'd let them call his apartment whenever they notice his absence.

He fancied he heard the subtle flap from the window.

He looked back to see the hint of golden locks vanishing behind the flutter of curtains.


	3. A Walk

**Chapter 3: A Walk**

He looked forward to a future of sitting down.

He reminded himself. He didn't have to endure all the physicality anymore, risk his life in the human world. He told that same thing to himself as a child when he submitted a Withdrawal request from Scaring 101. Every roadturn in life came with pros and cons. He'll count the blessings, the pros.

His back cracks at least vanished. Maybe he could jog faster. He had more stamina to visit more houses on door-to-door excursions and sold more books.

He found himself brisking along, no impulse to hurry despite his earlier desire to speed up. Maybe he wanted to enjoy the sun while it lasted.

Home. He vaguely remembered it. Snug. Limited furniture. Simple, as he liked it. Lonesome had its advantages. No noises in the night. He could finally return to his bed in Emeryville, even though he hadn't remembered how his bed was like. His room was slightly bigger... but it would feel emptier.

He could hear the creak of the front door opening from a distance.

My, his hearing had increased since the training and the far noises could be detected. And not in the way that things were louder, but rather, more things could be heard, like the whistle of the grass and the whizzing of insects. There was even the brush of jazz music from the second story, and the low beating of tentacles. The twins danced up there behind the blinds.

That crack of the door, a womanly breathing. He detected her without looking behind him. She had an umbrella. He heard the flapping of one peeling open.

"Donnie!"

When he looked back, his assessment turned out to be _partially_ correct with one oversight: she had _two_ umbrellas, one red one opened for herself, the other his own blue umbrella. Sheri dashed out, still in her flowery house gown. She still smelt of disinfectant and honeysuckle.

"Don, sweetie, you need your umbrella." She waved it around. "A storm might fall on you." She had removed her rollers so her curls hung and swayed from her double-horned head.

It was rather pointless for him to carry an umbrella, being of celaphonian heritage, which required a daily dose of water on his skin. Also, Mike often conducted their training session in rain so he was adapted to the chills. That way, they would adjust to any climate and temperature in case of a air-conditioned child's bedroom. The umbrella was simply an excessive accessory he purchased back then as a "just in case" checklist purchase if the rain got too cold (well, it was discounted too) and minimize the chills of the rain. And he had to keep the business cards, tucked in his shirt pocket beneath the OK initials, nice and dry.

On top of that, rejecting Sheri's generosity would be like rejecting a once-in-a-lifetime billion dollar deal. He had said innocent an "No thanks" to her shortbread cookies a few time and never forgot those pouts upon her lips.

A thunder sounded in the distance as he received the cool handle of his umbrella.

He thanked her. He didn't have to let her know he was leaving. It was routine too, at least, last semester pre-Scare Games. But she seemed so accustomed to his presence now that the lack of goodbyes felt dissatisfying to her. He better apologize.

"Sorry, I didna notify everyone. Do notify the boys that I'm going home."

"Home?" The way she said "home" seem tense, as if she didn't recognize his definition of home.

"Oh um," Perhaps he stayed so long that she forgot he lived elsewhere. "Ya' know, back to my flat on Dark Avenue."

"Oh." He recalled telling her, yer home beats my flat on Dark Avenue. It wasn't flattery, her cottage had pros he could not have in his flat.

"Quite all right, I forget that I live there nowadays." He winked.

They maintained their tenant-landlady relationship. The usual protocol. Made sure the boys weren't messing up her house (not that she minded too much as she often joined the boys at pillow fighting). Small-talk was small. But they talked about big things: namely her unplanned pregnancy with Scott, something she never even told Scott about.

"Remind me, when are ya graduating, Don?" They were now starting to walk together. It was clear she wasn't just out for the purpose of giving him his umbrella.

What was this? A conversation-starter.

"At this rate, next semester." He had visited the academic adviser. He was ready to slip up to the Scaring major when Mike signed them up for the Scare Games.

"I was wondering, Don, after it's all over, what do you have to look forward to?"

A new job. "A spankin' new office space."

"What will become of the O.K. boys by then?"

He had been giving that question the same amount of consideration he gave to his retirement plans. In other words, as sporadic afterthoughts he swiped to the back of his head.

It might quietly disband, fall into "defunct," as the school defined the term, being that it was situated on a domestic household, not a college campus, and didn't interest much students, or rather, students lost interest since the reports of the Scare Games. He was unsure if he had the heart to recruit new members after Mike and Sulley, but Sheri could use the housing income.

He had hoped that the Scare Games would not only revive his old dreams, but also prolong his stay at the Oozma Kappa household and maybe secure the same workplace with the Oozmas.

But he was sure he'll end up like Pa' Carlton, overworked to his death on a job that was indifferent to his ideals.

The presence of Scott, the twins, Art, Mike and Sulley would shrink into voices of occasional phone calls. Much like what happened with Dan, Pete, and Andrew. Sheri would probably join those voices too.

"You're always welcomed back for a chat."

"Well, thank golly for phones. Guess I could call up time to time. I reckon Scott would like my advice."

"I prefer visits." She chuckled. "I _recommend_ visits."

"Gee, m'am, yer acting as if I'm leaving forever."

What was with that little quip? He wasn't leaving forever. Why blubber the obvious? He realized he was preparing for it. He could not live in someone else's house. He meant zero offense to Sheri. He adored her in words he could not articulate, bigger than a salesman struck by stammering spells and stage fright.

But it just wasn't proper, his current housing arrangement. He had his own home.

"I'd wager Scott would take mai' place as President if he decides."

"Well, yes, I heard that talk. But I mean, where will you go?"

"Well, all good things must come to an end. I'll be back at mai' apartment in Emeryville." He couldn't ignore the disappointment in her eyes. "But regardless, no apartments could be as snug as your nice little home, why I could spend the rest of my life with you... as the Oozma Kappa President… in your home."

His words seemed to evoke pouting gleams in her eyes. "Then why don't you?"

The clouds thickened. He would pick up the speed if weren't for the brisk pace just to sustain the conversation.

But there were there, beneath the entrance, standing before it, as if uncertain if they were to enter. Don felt as if he had teleported too instantaneously from Sheri's house to the doorway of the University campus.

She stared at him like he was a stranger now, her look disarming, as if she was studying him.

He had lost much of his confidence in the last few years, but his optimism grew with his age. Thanks to his experience with the Scare Games, he could revive that confidence.

"All right, Sheri," his voice low as the breeze. Her name eased out of his lips, much better than the usual. After all the walks, cups of cocoa, and conversations they shared, he still had the automatic businessman precaution of formally addressing her as "Ms. Squibbles." Why? He was always on first-name basis with others.

"You sure you won't stay for dinner at least?"

"Oh, I would."

But he had the set goal. "But I need to try to catch Prof. Knight on campus. Then I'll be off to the bus ho-."

A gust slapped right onto their faces.

Her curls blew back. Don succeeded in gripping his umbrella, bless those suckers, into stability.

But it was her red umbrella that flew right out of her grip and hovered over the gate of Monsters University into the campus further and further away. Don would have torn away to catch it but he stationed himself to the pavement. He didn't want to rip himself from the conversation with Sheri or leave her behind.

"Oh dear," was all she could manage from the sight.

They were frozen in time, watching the spot of red slink deeper into the campus pass the apathetic students and trees.

"I must get going back home. The boys need dinner."

He had this sudden impulse to move closer to her, toward her skin smelling of perfume and disinfectant, and give her a sign, an affirmation of the mutual trust that had blossomed.

She stood, mute with anticipation. He leaned for her cheek, glad that his mustache could conceal his lips.

But to save himself from the embarrassment of a risky gesture, and because her scent was about to provoke tears from his eyes, he simply snatched her hand and shook it. The anticipation lit away in her eyes like a candle extinguished by a sudden wind.

He fought off the urge to flee.

"Well, really gotta make dinner now." She turned away, the sweep her curls brushing him.

"Gotta get to the campus office before it closes." He also wanted to retrieve her red umbrella but he wasn't sure he had time.

Don's instinct was to thrust the handle of his own blue umbrella into her hand, rapidly prying it off his suckers, so she would have protection from the storm.

He was ready to gently rebuff her protest-the expectant "Oh, no, no, no, dear, keep it, you need it more than me." But he was surprised by the solemn compliance. She wanted him to know that she'd keep it. Maybe she had figured it was safe to receive from him.

Was she blushing? Hard to tell if she was wearing makeup now.

He looked back only once as he headed toward the campus. She had turned around, back home.

She seemed to vanished into a blur of her flowery backside down the neighborhood, even as her hands struggle to stabilize her grip on the blue umbrella. It was flapping around in the wind, as if the handle would break from her hand, which perplexed him, because he knew she had a strong grip-she hugged him tight once that it could turn him blue.

From the distance, the red umbrella was floating in the distance. And Don, seeing that the rosy color of her umbrella was conveniently toward the trail of the Scaring School, dashed after it.


End file.
